. The Holy Scriptures sat jeweled and metal on the marble pedestal, centered on display and encased in the grand Dublin library. The page had been turned to an illuminated Chi and Rho; Greek for Khristus Christ, so ornate it was unrecognizable. But all the lovelier, it was; the script with sallow paint of Chi and Rho. Inside and outside of the letters, flowers of jade and mauve circled; so symmetrically, and intricate; the flowers and circles themselves were made even of smaller colors and shapes. Weaving in, out, and around of Chi were golden, Infanitum knots stretching through to Rho and the ginger man with the coiling neck; embracing a scarlet cross. At the bottom right of the page, three Claddaghs upheld the script; three golden hearts, and eyes within. And I saw this and thought, this truly is a masterpiece, of geometry and color; and one achieved with such little means and time. A few monks, thousands of years back, handpainted that manuscript with berries, limited parchment, and hare bristles; The faith and dedication those monks must’ve had— and the artistry! The glory of God shone through the Book of Kells like a torch. Still it does ! Truly, it is the work of angels !
(And that is only one page ! )
. She was built like an ox and she had piercing amber eyes that shone like gold. Link was looking up at her from the floor of the grassy meadow and he was wondering how it was possible for a woman to be so tall. She was looking down at him while the sun was beating on her dark face and she thought him awful small. It was her first time leaving Gerudo town and she had never seen a Hylian before. She had never seen a man before, either. As she pulled back her scarlet hair and adjusted her backpack, she thought to herself that he was a little disappointing.
Anne’s room was spacious with jade green walls and gray vinyl wood floors. She had one frame with encased arrowheads, but otherwise her walls were barren. The ceiling was slant and there were two windows with beige curtains. The trim on the windows and on the door was old, scuffed, and beaten. Half of it was stained a dark brown and the other half was an Americana brown. Anne had left a crowbar, a brush, and a can of stain at one corner in her room where the baseboard hadn’t been nailed into the wall. It was laying on the floor next to the other tools. In one slant corner she had a dark, pine knotted bed frame with a headboard and a pillow. The white sheets were coming off at one end and the blankets were scrambled in a knot. At the foot of her bed was a toolbox so overflowing with tools it couldn’t be closed; so she always kept it open. And then parallel to her bed she had a television and a gaming set. Next to that, a barnwood dresser that was spilling over with unfolded clothes.
One eve’ning silent as the sea, My father sang the song Of Hiawatha, To the swelling rhythm of the Gryllidae; At a point— I do declare— So fleeting as the Gryllidae; When all was quiet In the poor man’s way; Then I played on mossy Sodden logs; Garb in faded carrhartt; thin and boney As the leafless birch; So I ran shoeless and singing; Shouting in the graces of the sun The song of Hiawatha
It was strange. The words came to me as clearly as if my father said them; and I could hear not only his voice, but also the swelling of the crickets, and the shifting of leaves. It was a bright day. The mountain laurel was in bloom, and its’ sweet smell permeated the air. The birds sang at our old, sodden, dilapidated house in the mountains, where my father sang as well; on that lovely day. And this is what he sang, as he held me in his arms:
“Who knows how long I’ve loved you;
You know I love you still;
Will I wait a lonely lifetime?
If you want me to,
I will.”
Beneath the glass, my face a-bloom; With poppies red, and roses hue; Vining from chrysanthemums asunder; Where I lordly grasped the flaming sun, Where Blooming incarnatum lie, Spirits dare not tread where spirits be; Blood is never shed when tonic sees to That this will not be so Ere I lie beneath the glass; Safe like the butterfly withheld, Far and Unreachable as the sun, Somewhere near the bottle’s end
